Marketing Mondays: The Corporate Collection

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"How do I get my work into corporate collections?" is the question a reader sent me recently. I can answer this from my personal experience, but I'm going to depend on all of you to add your own information to this post via the comments.

Corporations are Small and Large
Small companies and corporations will be approachable. Maybe you’re a customer or client of one of them. A physicians' group is corporation, for instance. So is a law or accounting office. So is an apartment co-op. You can probably ask the receptionist, or the person you deal with, for the name of the person to talk to, which might be the managing partner or office manager. If the walls are bare (or worse, postered) there's probably no one making art decisions, so you could end up being the go-to person simply because you were the person who went to them.

There's also the personal referral. Here's a for instance: The director of libraries for a large institution had just overseen every aspect of a new building, including the acquisition of art. She is someone who has followed my career and personally collected my work. When the time came to acquire work for the board room, she knew exactly which of my pieces she wanted to place in that space.

Here's another: The managing partner of a New York City law firm had just overseen the renovation of an additional floor of offices. When the time came to acquire art, he turned to his dealer, from whom he has acquired work for his personal collection. (Notice a pattern here? It has to do with comfort and trust.) Together, the managing partner and the dealer put together a collection that projected the corporation's image—bold and dynamic but not too edgy.

In larger corporations, a staff curator makes those decisions. In other instances a freelance curator—who might work for the corporation or for the architect in charge of construction or renovation—may be called in to do a specific job. Alternatively an interior designer or design consultant hired by the corporation or the architect might be called. A big corporate acquirer of art is the hospitality industry--i.e. hotels and restaurants. Airlines are not buying art for their planes, but they do buy for the corporate offices and the first-class lounges. Maybe I'm oversimplifying, but who handles the job depends on whether the venue is looking for art to create a collection or to go with the decor (no value judgment here; art serves many purposes). Sometimes, there's an overlap.

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This four-panel painting of mine was acquired by Mark Williams Design, Atlanta, from a 2004 solo show at the Marcia Wood Gallery. Its destination was a private corporation in Chicago

Making Selections
Whether curator, architect, designer or consultant, the selectors typically make the rounds of galleries and non-profit spaces in their area. They may also visit open studios. And, of course, there are referrals. People who do this job for a living may return regularly to certain galleries or to individual artists because they know what to expect, and at what price point—and equally important, they can depend on the gallery or artist to deliver what's expected when it’s expected. (Don’t underestimate that power of comfort, trust and dependability.)

The big corporations may require that the curator/architect/designer/ consultant make a presentation. Smaller works might be physically brought in. Catalogs, exhibition announcements, and supporting material may factor into the decision. Once the decisions are made, the curator/architect/designer/ decorator will return to specific galleries or artists to pick up the work and install it, or have it installed.

Getting Your Work Into the Process
Show regularly. If you’re not with a gallery, show at alternative spaces, academic galleries, and open studios. The more your work is out there, the more likely it is to be seen.
. Hit the Internet. Who are art consultants, architects and decorators in your area? Put them on your postcard mailing list, and if they have an e-address, send them an invitation to visit your website. Let them know you'd welcome them for a studio visit.
. You do have a website, right? One big developer who selected the art for his buildings told one of my dealers that he had "depleted" his immediate area and had hit the Internet in search of more choices, which was why he'd ended up in her city and specifically at her gallery, and more specifically with my paintings.
. Do your own research. What are the small corporations in your region? If you do work that references biology, see if there are biotech startups in your area. Working digitally? Where are the tech firms in your area?. Libraries often respond to book themes. Find out who the chiefs and managers are and put them on your postcard list. They may be intrigued. How many other people are sending them art postcards?
. Understand the parameters. Hospitals want calm. Landscapes and seascapes are a natural here, as are abstractions with horizontals that create a sense of groundedness or gentle rhythm. Still lifes create an opportunity for contemplation when you or someone is ill. There's no installation art here. And look around: Notice any red? It's rare to see it in a hospital setting. "It's the blood association," says one consultant who asked that I not use her name. In a biotech corporation, the color is not freighted with emotional associations. The nude figure? You won’t see that in most corporations. (In one university collection, which included some classic nudes, the head of the art department took staffers on a tour of the collection, speaking about the role of the figure in painting and sculpture. Any misunderstandings by the non-art staff were smartly averted.)
. Who are the freelance curators and consultants? Tap into the artists' network; ask around. Who has been approached by a curator/architect/designer/consultant? Ask if there's a particular person who works well with artists, respects the work, pays promptly.
. Is there a percentage-for-art program in your city or state? Check it out. One percent of a multi-million-dollar project can yield a tidy sum for art.
. Some work may be commissioned, but that's a whole other post.

Understand the Process
The curator/architect/designer/consultant is working for the client, not for you. That doesn't necessarily mean you'll be treated badly, but understand the priority. Best-case scenario: You and your work are treated with the respect you deserve. Worst-case scenario: You're considered a supplier, like the carpet company, or a service provider, like the trash pickup. If you work through a dealer, you'll be shielded from much of this unpleasantness.

. Consultants typically receive a commission on sales, as opposed to a curator who is hired for the job. A consultant may thus be motivated to take in a lot of work to present in the hopes of the corporate decisionmakers liking at least some of it. So don’t get your hopes up.
. If work is going to leave your studio on spec, make sure the person taking it is insured. Make sure there's a written agreement to spell out who’s responsible for damage. If it's going out from your gallery, the dealer handles this.
. The person finding the work is not usually the person who will pay you for it, so you may wait a long time for payment if your work gets selected. Partly this is because corporations are used to the 30-, 60-, or 90-day invoicing. Ninety days is three months after a process that has likely taken six months. So you could wait close to a year for payment. (Someone at the six- or eight-figure corporate level has no idea that the check for an artwork could be used to make a mortgage payment, pay a dental bill, or put food on the table.) If you have several such sales in the pipeline, the waiting is not so bad, because checks arrive regularly.

Nothing Succeeds like Success
The curator/architect/designer/consultant whose selection is applauded is likely to get more such jobs. If your work has gotten a good response in their jobs, they’re likely to come back to you.

Over to You
Do you have a different take on the process from what I've described? Feel free to agree or disagree, or to add something to the process. Do you have anedcotes? Dealers, curators, decorators, please add your voices to the discussion.

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A First Look. And a Last Chance (With Party).

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Three by me at DM Contemporary/Manhattan: From top, Silk Road 127, 128 and 129, 2009, each encaustic on panel, 12 x 12 inches

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A First View . . .

DM Contemporary, a gallery in Mill Neck, Long Island, where I am represented, has opened a private viewing space in Manhattan. The new space is located in suddenly chic lower Park Avenue (the Gansevoort Park Hotel will open across the street in a few months). Owner Doris Mukabaa moved in the art before any of the furniture, so the opening on Sunday afternoon offered an all-eyes-on-the-art installation with natural light and a few strategically placed incandescents.

The exhibition is open by appointment through Saturday. Call the gallery at 516-922-3552 if you'd like to see the show. Here, let me take you on a little tour:

The little image above will take you from my work, top, to a panoramic view of the installation, below

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From far left: In the main gallery, two by Nancy Manter, Chattermarks #1 and Drift #4, both distemper and collage on aluminum; David Headley, Orchid #1, acrylic on canvas

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In the east gallery, still above; Carole Freyz Gutierrez, Layers 10, acrylic on canvas; Linda Cummings, archivial digital photographic prints (on either side of door). Hovering and Reverie; Luis Castro untitled sculpture (on pedestal), framed work by Frances Richardson

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Continuing the panorama: Headley; two small spolvero drawings from the Concentric Shape Series by Mary Judge; Karen Margolis drawing and Luis Castro sculpture (shown full view below); Frances Richardson; Lita Kelmenson sculpture (barely visible) in doorway, Barbara Andrus sculpture, Soft Box; Louise P. Sloane, Orange Orange Cobalt Teal, acrylic polymers and paint on aluminum

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Two spolvero drawings by Mary Judge, visible by the lamp pole above

Karen Margolis, Indeterminate, cut-and-stitched abaca; Luis Castro wood sculpture, Untitled

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Facing the main gallery and east gallery from entry: Jackie Battenfield Frail Strings, acrylic on canvas, foreground; Nancy Manter and David Headly paintings in foreshortened view; Mary Judge drawings; Louise P. Sloane painting

A closer look at Nancy Manter's Chattermarks #1, with a view in the opposite direction

Above, from left: Karen Schiff, Untitled (Triptych), acrylic and mixed media; Isabel Bigelow, Tree-Blue, oil on panel; Jerry Marksohn, City with a Sole, archival digital photograph

Below, we'll turn left at the Bigelow painting to enter the west gallery. In foreground, Eung Ho Park, I'm Looking at You-Prickly Gaze 1, mixed media on bottle caps on panel

From left: Babe Shapiro, Spring and All, string and acrylic on board; Tamiko Kawata Sculpture for Corner, rubber bands, acrylic on tube; White Silence and Echo and White Water Reflection, both rubber bands, acrylic on canvas

Below: Tomomi Ono, Milky Way, monoprint lithograph, mixed media
Most work shown is from 2009

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. . . And a Last Chance

Slippery When Wet, on view at Metaphor Contemporary Art in Brooklyn since mid- September, will close this Sunday, November 22. Eighteen of my Silk Road paintings, all with an aqueous palette, are part of the show. A larger work, Vicolo, is on view in the upstairs mezzanine. I wrote about the show here and here but go see it for yourself. Work is by Suzan Batu, Susan Homer, Nancy Manter, Andrew Mockler, Don Muchow, Peter Schroth and myself.

In a party mood? A Brooklyn-wide gallery hop will take place that weekend. Metaphor is planning a final reception party on Sunday. The gallery's Open House Reception will be from 3:00 to 6:00 p.m. (though the gallery will open at noon).

"We will have refreshments and thought it would be a good day for the artists to invite friends," says gallery director Rene Lynch. So...consider yourself invited. I should be there around 4:00. Hope to see you!

Joanne Mattera: Installation view of 18 Silk Road paintings, each encaustic on panel, 12 x 12 inches
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Marketing Mondays: You’ve Been Asked to do a Commission

Steven Alexander: Meteor Beach, 2008, acrylic on four canvases, 96 x 96 inches; commissioned for the lobby of the Hines Building, Lexington Avenue, New York City

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Several MM readers have asked me to write about the commission process. I'm happy to, but I'll open this post with a caveat: Because I maintain this blog in my "spare" time and on my own dime, I'm not in a position to research every topic. Much of what I write about comes from my own experience. That's the case here.

The commission process varies widely, because there are many different kinds of commissions—everything from major corporate jobs with architect, consultant and dealer involved, to the small private project that takes place between artist and client. As an example, my buddy Steven Alexander's work, a large corporate commission, graces the top of this post. Most of my commissions have been for private collectors, and I don't want to violate their privacy by showing their work here. Not only are the kinds of commissions different, but people work differently.

Preliminary Communication
While the dealer handles the financial logistics of the commission, I like to communicate directly with the client to establish the esthetic parameters. If you are working without a dealer or consultant, you’ll need to handle the finances as well as the communication. (My terms: a 50% non-refundable deposit; the balance on delivery, with client responsible for shipping and installation costs. Other artists work in thirds: at the start, midway, and at the end.)
. I acknowledge that the client is interested in having me do the commission because she likes my esthetic, technique and material sensibility.
. I ask her to tell me what she has in mind, requesting that she show me examples of work she likes—mine and that of others.
. Interaction at this point is crucial. If I don’t think I can do the commission—if a client wants a still life, for instance—or if I think the client will be too difficult, I turn the job down. You develop a sixth sense about the personal interaction.
. To offset the "non-refundable" part, I tell her I’m willing to make two paintings so that she can choose the one she likes better. I'll make paintings that are related but different. More than once it has happened that the client (often a couple) decides to purchase the second one, too. If not, you have a painting for your inventory.
. Offering a two-painting choice really puts a client at ease—makes her feel that you're not going to foist something on her that she doesn’t want. Also, the two-painting process relieves you of some pressure in that you don’t have to put every idea into one painting. I wouldn't take this tack with a large commission, however, as the work load would be too specific and too intensive.
. If the work will need special care, let the client know upfront. You don’t want this to become an issue at the end.

Starting the Project
If I can see the space, good. If not, I ask the client to show me pictures. This not only gives me a sense of the space, but how it’s furnished.
. If a client requests that you visit her home, build that cost into your job estimate or price, particularly if it involves airline travel or significant time away from the studio.
. I encourage a client to send me swatches of colors from her home furnishings, visit or not. This is a commission, so if she wants her painting to go with the sofa, OK. But I make clear that once we agree on the palette, she must trust me to put the colors together in a way that makes a good painting, not simply an adjunct to the furniture.
. I provide a swatch palette on watercolor paper so the client can see the colors I’m using, since paint is different from the dye of her fabrics. Color adjustments can be made at this time.
. A commission is different from other artwork in that is being made for a particular client. Some artists get upset when they’re asked to work within parameters, or when the parameters are displeasing to them. If you don’t want to have to factor in the sofa, don’t take on a commission.

Getting Underway
At the beginning of the project, I usually send the client a jpeg to show her the studio setup for the commission. This is primarily to help her understand that the project is a big undertaking for me, and the painting is not something that can be whipped up in a week. It also assuages her fear that I haven’t gone on vacation with her non-refundable deposit.
. I send another Jpeg when the first painting is a little more than halfway completed.
. This is the time for the client to speak up. I ask: What do you like? What don’t you like? Is this what you were expecting? I not only pay attention to her comments about color, proportion, surface, whatever, I take notes. So if she tells me, “I love this palette,” or “I love what you’ve done so far,” if there’s a problem at the end, I can say, “At the midpoint you told me you loved it, and here’s what you said…."
. If I were doing a large project, I would ask the client to sign off on a progress report, essentially putting in writing what we’ve discussed, but because my commissions have been under $20,000, and because I’m working through a dealer, personal interaction and dealer involvement have been enough.

Toward the End
I send another J-peg. This lets the client see essentially what the painting will look like. There’s still a little flexibility here to make small changes—usually accent colors.
. Some clients ask to visit the studio. That’s fine with me. I always ask the involved gallery if they’d like to come to the studio as well

The Finished Painting
If she likes it, great. Sold.
. If she doesn’t like it, I ask her what she would like to see different and then try to incorporate her ideas into the second painting, which I have been working on more or less simultaneously but have not shown her.
. Some clients like the first painting but wish to refrain from committing until the second one is done. That’s OK with me.

The Second Painting
At the midpoint of this painting I send the client a j-peg. If she’s in love with the first one, this is usually the time when she commits to it. This allows me to take my time on the second painting and let it evolve into something that doesn’t hew to the parameters of the commission. If she wants to see the second one, I'll finish it right away.

Payment and Delivery
Because I work with dealers, they handle the contracts and the payment. But the bottom line is the non-refundable 50%. I must have my share in hand before I start the work. That money is for my materials and time--the sketches, material gathering, the back-and-forth communication with the client. Also, when clients have already paid for half a painting, their enthusiasm is likely to remain active.
. I may deliver the painting to the gallery, or the gallery may have it pickjed up, but the gallery delivers it to the client. Some dealers (typically outside New York) will install the painting for the client.
. The balance is paid to the dealer when the painting is delivered. (If you’re working on your own, this is the time to collect.)

A Note About Pricing
If I were doing a large project, particularly a project outside the scope of what I normally do, I would work up a thorough budget—cost of paint, panels, transportation, assistants, installation, and a salary for me. The moment you step outside your familiar work zone, you really need think things through. (Refer to Jackie Battenfield's The Artist's Guide for more on this matter.)
. Once you and a client agree on a price, there is no renegotiating, no discount. If you are unfamiliar with the client and you’re working without a dealer, a contract would be in order.

. If a client wishes to purchase the second painting (it has happened!), I feel a 10% or 15% “courtesy” is acceptable on the second work. The client gets a deal and you make two sales—win/win.
. If a dealer secures the commission for you, a 40% commission is appropriate (maybe 50% if they worked hard to secure the commission, or if they plan to host an unveilng party, or produce a catalog or nice brochure.) If you’re working alone, you retain the full price but you may be asked to deliver the work, to help install it—possibly having to hire help—so you’ll earn every penny. (I have worked in different ways with that non-refundable 50% deposit. One time I kept the entire deposit and dealer got most of the remainder at delivery; that was a mistake, because there was no carrot at the end. Usually the dealer and I divide the deposit up front and at the end.)
. If you are working alone, build the price of administration, delivery and installation into your final proposed price. If the client balks at this price, you can negotiate down. For instance, you could eliminate the post-painting services such as delivery and installation. This is why communication is essential. It’s also why a dealer earns her commission; she’s going to handle all that stuff.

Over to you
Readers, have you you handled commissioned projects? Please weigh in with advice, caveats and anecdotes.
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Powerful

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I remember Sapphire's 1996 novel, Push, on which this movie is based, as being unrelentingly heavy. An illiterate 300-pound girl, pregnant for the second time at 16 with her father's child, is subject to an ugly sack of abuse by the depraved father, by her angry mother, and by strangers who see her size as an invitation to assault her verbally, sometimes physically.

The movie, Precious, still weighty, has moments of lightness, especially in the girls-only classroom of the last-chance school Precious attends. Thrown together, Precious and her classmates form an unlikely fabric, a safety net that catches and holds them all. Without getting all preachy, those scenes suggest what Precious will come to learn: that education is the way out of her particular hell.

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Gabourey Sidibe brings intelligence and growing awareness to her sullen, illiterate Precious. The comic Mo'nique is a powerfully vile and monstrous mother. Lenny Kravitz has a small role as a sympathetic nurse. Paula Patton has an impossibly decent role as the saintly teacher. Mariah Carey, who plays the social worker, should stick to singing. And is that the novel's author who has a cameo in the daycare scene at the end?

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Lee Daniels directed. Oprah and Tyler Perry produced.

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See it!

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What Recession?

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Terminus: Drawings and Recent Paintings, a solo exhibition by Raoul De Keyser at David Zwirner through October 14, featured some 50 small abstractions with a geometric bent. I was taken with the intimacy of the work and with the playful, almost naive, shapes and colors.

Raoul De Keyser, Crawly, 2009, oil on canvas, app. 13.5 x 17.5 inches

But that's only half of why I'm writing about the show. The other half is to talk about the prices. The small paintings--most not much larger than 12 inches in any one dimension--had enormous prices. How enormous? Like $55,000 to $75,000 enormous. And there were red dots next to most of them. Want to guess the price of Crawly, above? See for yourself:
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Did I step into an alternate universe? In this beautiful show, most of the paintings, in the high five figures, were red dotted

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The three paintings on the wall, above, are shown in the price list below:

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Below: Also on the price list is Complex, 2009, oil on canvas, 12 x 10 7/8 inches. Price: $55,000
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I Shot (The Man Shooting) Andy Warhol

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At the Art Institute of Chicago's new wing: You Know Who by You Know Who

Logging In From Chicago

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Charles Ray, Hinoki, 2007, carved cypress

So there I was in the Art Institute of Chicago’s new wing this past weekend, taking it all in for the first time, when I came upon a fallen log set on blocks. Given my two recent tree posts from Boston and New York, reporting on this creates an arboreal trifecta.

Charles Ray found a fallen tree in a field in California, cut it into pieces with a chainsaw, and transported it piece by piece to his Los Angeles studio. Here, let him tell you the rest, courtesy of the wall text:

“Silicone molds were taken and a fiberglass version of the log was reconstructed. This was sent to Osaka, Japan, where master woodworker Yuboku Mukoyoshi and his apprentices carved my vision into reality using Japanese cypress (hinoki).” So it's an exact replica of the tree Ray found, except possibly in a different wood.

In its new incarnation the tree will likely have another 1000 years of life, according to Ray: “When I asked Mr. Mukoyoshi about the wood and how it would behave over time, he told me that it would be fine for 400 years and then it would go into a crisis; after 200 years of splitting and cracking, it would go into slow decline for another 400 years.”

Of course this tree has a controlled climate and, more important, museum conservators to look after it.

Let's walk around it counterclockwise:

The far end (barely visible in the picture above)

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Below: Rounding the end, you can peer into the hollow log

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Continuing around to the other side: Stepping back to take in its length; a long branch reveals the fragility of the log
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Below: We continue circling; the gallery entrance is over your right shoulder as you view this end of the work

I'll have more from Chicago over the next couple of weeks. Then . . . Miami.
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Marketing Mondays: The November Issue

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Say you've decided to take out a small classified or display ad in an art magazine to promote an event. Or perhaps you or your gallery are thinking about purchasing a full-page for your solo show. If you've priced them, you know that ads are not cheap. A classified in an art magazine can run a couple hundred dollars; full page, front-of-book placement can run $7000 or $8000 (or more, sometimes much more, for the inside front or back cover, the outside back cover or other prime placement in the front of the book).

Ever wonder how many people you’re reaching for the price you're paying? As a potential advertiser, you have the right to request and receive that information from the publisher.
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Image from Matthew Keegan, who writes about the state of publishing here


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The rest of us need only to look at the back of the book.

Every fall, usually in the November issue, all magazines that are sent through the mail are required by the postal service to publish the names of the editor and managing editor, the name of the corporation that owns the publication—and the number of issues printed at the last monthly print run, as well as the number of subscribers. It’s a federal code called the 39 USC 3685. (Bimonthly or quarterly publications publish these figures in the issue closest to November.)

Publishers don’t like to publish this information because it takes up valuable ad space in their magazine. Small publishers really don’t like it because it reveals just how few copies of their magazine are actually printed and distributed. The information is usually on one of the last few pages, printed in the smallest legible point size. I know this because I supported myself for 20 years with jobs in publishing.

So how many people read art magazines? The number is well under 100,000 for a national publication—closer to 60,000 or 40,000 a month, or even 25,000. The figure is even smaller for regional or really specfic niche titles. Ad rates are tied to readership figures so higher readership brings in higher ad rates, but it's publishing's little secret that everyone fudges the figures.

Granted, the art world is different from the world at large. We don’t need to reach a People, Vogue, or Reader's Digest audience; those print figures are in the millions. (And ads are in the high six figures; though it's been a while since I was privy to those figures so I could be way off now.) We need only reach our much smaller cohort of dealers, critics, curators, collectors and artists. .

Given the economic climate, some might argue that ads are more important than ever. Others might take a different route--a catalog, for instance, which remains a viable document long after the print run is over; or a good website with regular postcard mailings. All of these are good options, and in this post I'm not arguing for one over the other.

My point is simply this: It's November. Now that you know what to look for, check out the numbers in the back of the book.
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Branching Out at the Met

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Roxy Paine's Maelstrom, on the roof of the Met through the end of the month. This calligraphic view over the hedges looks northwest

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It’s one thing to look at a maquette of Roxy Paine’s Maelstrom. It’s another thing entirely to enter into the stainless steel thicket. In the small scale, it looks like a tangle of branches that one might have plucked from a stripped-bare bush. Walking within and around the actual sculpture on the roof of the Met, I felt as if I were negotiating the space between root and branch, as if the trunk had been eliminated and I was both under the earth and in the sky at the same time. The rooftop aerie, which has become a sort of treehouse, heightens the sensation.

Yes, there are conceptual and formal issues: The systemic quality of the sculpture relates as much to a neural network, or a circulatory sustem, as roots and branches. The branching elements create a fluid script against the sky. Then there’s the lovely incongruity of this “system” of stainless steel pipes set on the edge of arboreal Central Park, which is dense with its own natural ecology. But, really, the best way to experience this work is kinesthetically. Don't think it. Feel it. You can’t climb on it, but you can walk within it and touch it. You can hear it, too.

To orient you as I take you around the roof

. Looking south, the Citicorp building on Lexington Avenue is visible in some of the images. It has what looks like a TV screen set into the topmost part of the facade. The geodesic-paneled column is the new(ish) Hearst tower on 57th Street at 8th Avenue--East Side (left) and West Side (right) respectively

. Looking west across the park, the twin-spired building is the San Remo, one of the great prewar apartment buildings on the West Side. Farther north you'll see another such landmark, the turreted Beresford

. Looking north, there's the visual interruption of the concession stand, though there's also a lovely reflection in the museum’s mirrored windows

. To the east, there's the museum's pergola over which the buildings on Fifth Avenue press too close

We start at the north end of the sculpture looking south.

Looking south. Here the work resembles something like coral, though it hybridizes quickly into ginseng and tree branches--underground and above ground, land and water

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Below: We're walking into the sculpture


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Above: Moving farther into the work. As you look through the sculpture and over the south end of Central Park, you can see the Citicorp and Hearst buildings, respectively left and right in the frame


Below: Within the ticket there's room to move around. While some of the elements are as delicate as tendrils, others are quite a bit larger. I suspect they're helping to hold the massive structure in place.

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We step back and swing around to the southwest. The sculpture seems to send out runners that insert themselves into the pavement. Yes, it's metal, but it's thrillingly botanical nonetheless. To orient you: The San Remo towers are at the left of the frame, the Beresford turrets, right
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Below: We move back from the corner of the roof and slightly back toward the south to take in the tuberous node in the bottom right of the frame




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There are a couple of big nodes, one hiding the other, but you're seeing both, above and below

Below: Possibly my favorite shot, the drama of the ginger-like tuber in the foreground sending out delicate rootlets that seem to slide along the pavement. To orient you, the triangle-facade Hearst building is toward the left, and the San Remo at right, which means we're swinging from southwest to west (again)


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Continuing our 360-degree tour
Above: we're looking northwest--the San Remo is toward the left of the frame. The calligraphy of the branches against the sky that's so beautiful in the western views of the sculpture changes abruptly as structures to the north and east close in on the work
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Below: Looking north toward the concession stand
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Northeast view: With the architecture closing in, our view comes closer to the pavement, though there's a lovely touch, below, where a "runner" insinuates itself through the slatted roof of the pergola and into the trees
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Above: Bramble-eye view, looking east. See that pair of legs at the far right? We're walking over there next
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Below: Having walked to the far south end of the roof, we've turned to face north. Before you is an unexpectedly Bourgeoisian element isolated from the main work, though tethered. Formally it may be there just to spatially involve this far end of the roof, but I like the implication that it's new growth, that this sculpture continues to expand before our eyes
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Above: Facing north from that far south end
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Below: Reflecting the south-facing view from the mirrored windows on the roof's north walls. This is the reverse image of where we started our 360 tour
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There’s still time to see Maelstrom. Because of the unusually rainy spring and summer, in which the roof was closed to visitors for an inordinate number of days, the exhibition has been extended through November 29. (Check the Met website to confirm.) It’s still going to be closed on rainy days, and with Daylight Savings Time over, it’s going to close earlier in the afternoon. But if you’re anywhere in the region, go see it.

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You should know that the roof is athrob with people, and you’ll probably find yourself annoyed by the tourists who insist on blocking your good views as they pose for endless pictures of themselves. Even if you go early, find out when closing time is that day and make a point of returning just before then. You'll get to see the sculpture with far fewer distractions. (If you’re wondering why there are so few people in my pictures, it’s because I shot in the few minutes before closing. "I'm an artist," I said, and the guards allowed me to photograph until the very last moment. Bless them. By then, I’d taken all of these shots—and many more. You’re seeing the best ones. )

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Curious about how that big sculpture got onto the roof? See the the artist installing it here.

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Big Tree, Little Branches

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At Carroll and Sons Gallery, Boston: Sandra Allen, Ballast, 2009, graphite on paper (15 separate sheets), total of 133.5 x 222.5 inches. That's about 12 x 19 feet

In Boston recently, I stopped into Carroll and Sons Gallery in the South End to see Sandra Allen's marvelous arboreal drawings. The one I loved most was the imposingly large-scale Ballast, installed on the wall facing the gallery entrance. Photographic from a distance, it is a mass of pencil marks from up close--a graphic rewriting of the old saw about not seeing the forest for the, well, you know.

That shift in scale reminded me that in May I'd photographed the maquette of Roxy Paine's Maelstrom at the James Cohan Gallery, just before the actual gargantuan sculpture was installed on the roof of the Met. I'll show you the big work via multiple pictures in the next post, but here you can take in the whole thing in two views.

At James Cohan Gallery in May: Roxy Paine's maquette of Maelstrom

Above: view from the south end (as it is installed on the Met roof)

Below: view from the north

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Marketing Mondays: "Unsolicited" Submissions

There's no mystery to this message

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Kim from Minneapolis writes: "Lately on gallery websites I've been seeing the specific phrase: 'We are currently not accepting unsolicited submissions.' Why the change from 'We are currently not accepting submissions?' What does unsolicited mean in this context?

Are they trying to say, 'We're not taking on any new artists but we might be willing to look at your material if you ask before you send it.' Or 'Stop! We really mean it!' Or something else? I've seen this enough times of late that it seems to have some sort of meaning that is eluding me."

Kim, you're overthinking this. There's no hidden meaning here. Submissions have always been unsolicited, unless a dealer specifically requests that you send a package of materials. By adding the adjective unsolicited, dealers are simply reminding artists that the packages we prepare with so much care and expectation are, in fact, not requested by them.

The recent two-part series on How Galleries Are Considering Artists Now makes clear that while some dealers do look, the cold-call submission is the least effective means of introducing your work to a dealer. A Midwest dealer gave the odds of success as “one in a million.”

In his book, How to Start and Run a Commercial Gallery, the dealer Edward Winkleman lists these methods by which a gallery finds artists. Note the position of the unsolicited (aka cold-call) submission package:
. Recommendations from gallery artists, curators, other dealers, collectors
. Institutional exhibitions such as non-profit galleries and contemporary art museums
. Studio visits and Open Studio tours
. Cold-call submissions

And here’s what he has to say about them: “Because cold-call submissions are often the least productive method of finding suitable artists, they tend to be most dealers’ least preferred means of searching. . . . If you reach a point where you are sure cold-call submissions are no longer a good means of finding new artists for you, I recommend posting that fact on your Web site. It probably won’t stop all future submissions, but at least it will prevent the artists who check first from wasting time and money.”

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Hence the emphatic unsolicited you see on so many gallery sites.

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So how do you get in? Referrals, recommendation, buzz. How do you get those? Network, network, network.

Over to you: Have you had any success with the unsolicited submission? If so, are there things you have done to pave the way for it (i.e. sending postcards of your work, visiting the gallery regularly)? I suspect this is more likely to happen in cities that are not New York, but do tell.

If you work in a gallery: Would you share your advice and insights about this hit-or-miss method for artists to get their work seen? What has impressed you? Have you ever shown anyone as a result of the unsolicited package? And without blowing your anonymity, if you wish to remain anonymous, please let us know if you are from a large metropolitan city or elsewhwere, as accessibility does seem to favor artists who are looking for galleries in cities other than New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, San Francisco.

Hyperallergic? Antihistamines Not Required

Break out the champagne, not the Benadryl

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My buddy Hrag Vartanian has introduced his new blogazine, Hyperallergic (tag line: Sensitive to Art and Its Discontents). Congratulations, Hrag!

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What's a blogazine? Well, it's a blog, but it's conceived like a magazine. The first post appeared on October 7, and Hrag and his staff (friends, interns and a group known as "the editors") have been pumping out features every day. There are contributors, too, like Heart as Arena 's Brent Burket. While it's heavy on the street art, there are also art reviews and a news feature that pulls in clips and links from all over the art world.

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My favorite post so far: The 20 Most Powerless People in the Art World. Too-too-che!

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Where Vanity Fair, W, Art Forum and Forbes fear to tread

Tripping on the LES: Evans, Williams, Almeida, Martinez, P-Orridge

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In a recent foray to the galleries on the Lower East Side, I experienced spatial shifts, woozy geometry, surrealistic portraits and hallucinogenic patterns. Call it LSD on the LES. (I wasn't really tripping; it just felt that way.)

Franklin Evans

At Sue Scott Gallery on Rivington Street, Franklin Evans transformed the space with tape, paint and lots of colored stuff. According to the gallery press release, Evans recreated his own studio. It felt like walking into an notebook--no, into an artist's head, an experience, if you are an artist, that will not feel unfamiliar, even if the specific contents are different from what's in your own cabeza. The show ended October 24, but here's a peek at what I saw:

Evans at Sue Scott: Looking toward the gallery entrance, with a wall-and-floor detail below

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It's not always easy to determine what's three dimensional and what appears to be that way. Hint: The round tunnel, above, is on a flat wall that juts into the gallery to divide the space in two. Elements from the wall continue onto the floor

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Below, a painting leans up against a wall; the "wall" at left is open, defined by tape from ceiling to floor. I don't know about anyone else, but I proceeded slowly through the space, as much to take it all in as to navigate the spatial distortions

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Michael Williams

The vertiginous painting by Michael Williams, below, crams all of Evans's spatiality into a two dimentional surface. Williams's show, Uncle Big, is at Canada on Chrystie Street through November 15. While there's more to Williams than vertigo, most of his visual narratives seem to be spaced-out meditations on everyday life.

Williams at Canada: Mikes Zone, oil on canvas, 40 x 60 inches

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Detail below, with a frosting-like palette and surface

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Caetano de Almieda

Up through November 15, the Brazilian Caetano de Almieda pulls you into his dialog with geometric abstraction at Eleven Rivington . I particularly liked his hallucinogenic grid, below, which seems to breathe with you, inhaling and exhaling before your eyes.
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Almeida At Eleven Rivington: 3825 Cores (3285 Colors), 2008, acrylic on canvas, app. 59 x 47 inches

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Detail below .

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Max-Carlos Martinez

Martinez's first-time solo is at Christopher Henry Gallery through November 1. As suggested by the title of the show, The Pursuit of Happiness (Is a Warm Gun), the work mixes referents and ideas. Cowboys and Indians take you through a narrative that suggests historical struggle and cultural identity painted with what seems to be a mescaline-dipped brush. The smaller works are framed and glazed, so as you peer into the work, you catch a glimpse of yourself--another layer of history and identity. But are you adding something of your culture and history to the artist's? Or is he adding his to yours?

For his part, the self-taught Martinez says simply: "Inspired by my tripping through america/as an insider, as an outsider/revolving doors and cultural mores/dog bless america!"

Martinez at Christopher Henry: Under My Thumb, 2009, 42 x 108 inches; and Pillow Talk, 2009, 74 x 60 inches, both acrylic on paper

Below: Pillow Talk detail with an electric palette and retinally challenging pattern

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Above: She Came in Through the Bathroom Window

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Below: Tennessee Waltz, both 2009, acrylic on paper, 30 x 22 inches

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Genesis Breyer P-Orridge

Identity is a thread that also runs through 30 Years of Being Cut Up at Invisible-Exports on Orchard Street, which closed October 18. The unique individual known as Genesis Breyer P-Orridge, a cross-dressing, pandrogynous man who had himself surgically and cosmetically altered to look like his paramour, Lady Jane Breyer, showed three decades of collages. The mix-it-up medium would seem to suit the artist, and while there are more exposed body parts than I care to show you here, this collage of a certain British monarch--more Surrealist than psychedelic--made me laugh out loud:

Genesis Breyer P-Orridge at Invisible-Exports: English Breakfast, collage
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Coincidentally: Ramsay and Mann

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By now you know my visual guidestick: Two's a coincidence, three's a trend. Here we have a coincidence, all the more striking because the galleries are around the corner from one another in the same building and on the same floor.

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In several key pieces in their shows, Debra Ramsay at Blank Space and David Mann at McKenzie Fine Art (both at 511 W. 25th) are working with similar elements: a symmetrical composition with an "exploded" vertical core, built up through repeated elements, and executed with modulated color and a strong sense of materiality and process. Transparent or translucent color allows you to view each work through a chromatic scrim.

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Each exhibition satisfies on its own, but the visual reciprocity enhances the experience. There are differences, of course. Scale is the most obvious; Mann works larger. Color is another; Ramsay has the more neutral palette. And the materials--acrylic, encaustic--refract the light differently. See for yourself.

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Both shows are up now: Ramsay's through October 31, Mann's through November 14..

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Debra Ramsay: Measuring Parallels 33, 2008, encaustic and eggshell on birch panel, 12 x 24 inches

Detail below

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David Mann: Phantasm, 2009, acrylic and oil on canvas over board, 58 1/8 x 68 1/8 inches

Detail below

Installation views: Ramsay at Blank Space, left, and Mann at McKenzie Fine Art

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Marketing Mondays: The "Adjective" Artist. How Do You Define Yourself?

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A short while back, a reader with the nom de blog of Quilt Works asked, “Have you ever done features on fiber artists?” Man, did she push a button!

Love the Work, Hate the Adjective
Let me start out by saying this: Quilt Works, I mean you no disrespect. I love quilts and textiles. Amish quilts, Gee’s Bend quilts, Faith Ringgold’s quilts, Alighero e Boeti’s embroidered canvases, and the work in fiber of many other artists, well known or lesser so. So it’s not the medium that pushes my button but the use of the adjective as a means of identification.

Allie Pettway quilt. Pettway is one of the Gee's Bend Quilters represented by the New York gallery Ameringer/McEnery/Yohe. (Image from the Internet)

In one of my first posts for this blog, I wrote my personal manifesto, I Am Not an Encaustic Artist. As I said in the post, I work in the medium because it allows me to express myself in the best possible way, but I don't want to be defined by it. Encaustic is something I use (and love using), but it's not who I am.

Polly Apfelbaum's "fallen paintings" made with fabric dye on cut fabric: fiber art or painting? (Image from the Internet)

Avoid the Typecasting

Those of us who work in particular mediums—whether encaustic or fiber, metalpoint or clay, or any one of a number of other at-the-edges-of-mainstream materials—run the risk of being pigeonholed by the particularity of the material. We didn’t go to “fiber art school” or “metalpoint school.” We went to art school where we tried a variety of materials. As artists we express ourselves in the medium that resonates for us.

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It’s easy to get typecast, and from there to hear a comment like, “We already showed one fiber artist this year.” Could you imagine a dealer saying that about oil? (Those Sopranos actors are dealing with a similar issue right now, I’ll bet. Lots of opportunities to play thugs, but romantic leads? Not so much.)

I’ll bet that Oliver Herring, when he was crocheting his sculptures a decade ago, called himself a sculptor, not a fiber artist (he was just on the cover of the September Art News, by the way). I'll bet Shinique Smith, who works with baled forms, and Peter Weber, who works with folded felt, do not call themselves fiber artists.

Shinique Smith: work from a recent solo exhibition at Yvon Labert Gallery

Peter Weber: from a show at Thatcher Projects in 2008

Maybe you think I’m being petty

Who has the more visible careers—“fiber artists” or non-adjectival artists like Apfelbaum, Smith, and Weber? "Fiber artists" or Tracy Emin, whose recent work consisted of stitched blankets? “Encaustic artists” or a painter like Jasper Johns, who employs encaustic in his work?

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To answer Quilt Works’s question, I have written about artists who work with fiber or fiber constructions. My report from the 2009 Armory week in New York, for instance, included a post called Sew Me the Money, which included Emin’s blankets, El Anatsui’s wall-size bottle-cap constructions (you could easily call them tapestries), Mary Heilmann’s woven chairs, and other work.

Interestingly, any of the aforementioned artists who work with fiber could easily be the subject of a feature in a textile magazine, but the reverse does not hold true. How many self-identified weavers, for instance, have you see in in Art in America? There is plenty of work in fiber in those publications, but it's under the conventional art categories of painting, sculpture, work on paper, maybe installation. Indeed, when I was looking at some of the textile-influenced work at shows during Armory week in New York, I couldn't help thinking that I've seen so much better by artists who might define themselves as "fiber artists"--but much of the rest of the art world hasn't seen this work because it's sequestered in "fiber" and "textile" shows.

(The quilts are an interesting issue on their own. Those that spring out of a particular culture--Amish or Gee's Bend, or Navajo weaving for that matter, may be included in museum and gallery shows, but typically under the cultural rubric; individual artists often remain anonymous.)

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Jasper Johns: "encaustic artist" or painter? Installation from Focus: Jasper Johns at MoMA in early 2009

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"Fiber art" or art? Tracey Emin stitched blanket at White Cube Gallery's booth at the Armory Fair, March 2009
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Acknowledging our Commonalities, Limiting our Limitations
I love materiality, and I understand the powerful need for artists to align themselves with others. I have done it myself--and still do when the occasion seems appropriate to me. But as a general means of identification, no. I currently run an annual conference for painters who work in encaustic, and some years ago I edited a magazine called Fiberarts, which is still published. I think the specific focus of a publication or event provides a place for artists who work in a particular medium to show their work to that particular audience, to share information and network. This is true of other "adjectives" as well: women artists, black artists, gay artists, and artists of any ethnicity or culture. It can be emotionally fulfilling, to say nothing of professionally helpful, to align ourselves with others who are who we are, who do what we do. But not all the time; that's a ghetto.

Besides, we have many adjectives to describe us; where would it end? Without denying any part of how I identify myself in the world, for instance, it would nevertheless be ridiculous to ghettoize myself artistically as a mid-career Italian-American lesbian feminist encaustic artist.

I've come to this point of view over time: The more narrowly we define ourselves, the narrower our opportunities will be.

So you can count on me to write about art made with all of all kinds of materials--and to discuss the materials--but without defining the artist by the medium, as much as it is possible do so.

Over to You
Do/did you define your art (or your artist self) with an adjective? Do you you struggle with the "adjective" issue? How do you deal with it? Do you feel you've ever been eliminated, overlooked, or dismissed because of the adjective rather than the work? Do you think you may have limited your own opportunities for grants or exhibitions because of the way you define your art? Or, has it helped you?
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